


No Man's Land

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-18
Updated: 2007-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1625864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ned goes missing during a trip to London during the Blitz, it's up to Verity to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man's Land

**Author's Note:**

> Karihan, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Written for karihan

 

 

"What do you mean, you've lost Ned?" I demanded.

The great thing about having Mr Dunworthy for a boss is that he never lies to you. He never makes a job sound more urgent than it is, and he never makes matters seem less serious than they are.

This time he straightened his glasses and said: "He's gone missing."

"Where was he?"

"The same place that we're about to send you," said Mr Dunworthy calmly.

"Oh." That sounded alright - mostly. I was on my way to the Novello Theatre in London, where we had been researching items that might be salvaged before it was bombed during the Blitz. Unfortunately, the theatre didn't really seem to possess any treasures, but Lady Schrapnell had been rereading Tossie's diaries and had discovered a couple of nostalgic references to it - apparently one of her children had starred in a show there during the 1920s, and she'd also known Ivor Novello. Which meant that Ned and I were spending a lot of time pretending to be wardrobe or cleaning staff; me in the 1920s, Ned during 1940. So all I needed to do was persuade Mr Dunworthy to send me through in 1940 instead of 1928; then I'd be able to look for him. Unless I also disappeared. I looked hard at Badri, who was frowning at his screen, and then at Mr Dunworthy, who looked disturbed.

"So what's happened? Where's Ned gone?"

Badri looked up. "Well, he's not where we sent him," he said. "I'm trying to get a fix, but at the moment we can't find him."

Fear clutched at my chest, although I tried hard not to show it. "Could he have...wandered away? Maybe if he was hit by a piece of masonry, or something - he might be in shock." Or dead, but I wasn't going to consider that. "He might be trapped somewhere, injured." There was a short silence, and I knew we were all contemplating an image of Ned, trapped in a burning building over a hundred years ago. Damn Lady Schrapnell and her stupid schemes! "Right," I said firmly, "you'd better send me through. I might be able to find something."

"Perhaps I should go, Verity," said Carruthers, poking his head around the corner. He was half-way into some kind of uniform. "I know the space-time location better than you."

"I've spent plenty of time wandering around that area," I protested.

"Yes, in the 1920s and 30s. You might walk straight into an air raid. How will you manage?" I could see that he didn't mean to be insulting, but his tone made me feel as if I was back in Victorian England again; any minute now, Finch was going to reprimand me in his butler voice for speaking out of turn.

"It might be worth letting her go, Mr Dunworthy," Finch said. I offered him a mental apology. "She's a woman - people might be more likely to confide in her." I retracted the apology.

Mr Dunworthy didn't answer for a moment; instead he leaned over Badri's shoulder and squinted at the screen. Then he looked up. "All right. Verity, go and see what you can find out. But don't stray further than 100 metres from the drop. We'll pull you out in an hour. Carruthers, you can follow when we find out where Ned is."

"Right," I said briskly. "Er, _am_ I likely to land in the middle of an air raid? Because I'd appreciate some sort of protection, if so."

"Take this. I'll get another one from Peggy." Carruthers threw me a heavy, suspicious looking object that turned out to be a gas mask. It looked more World War I than Blitz issue, but it made me feel slightly more secure.

"I think you'll be alright as you are," Mr Dunworthy said, waving a hand at my calf-length brown dress and matching hat. "We'll send you through before nightfall. But Verity, we'll set up a five minute intermittent." He glanced at Badri, who nodded and began punching commands into the keyboard, eyes on his screen. "If there's a problem - anything at all - get straight back here."

I nodded, but I wasn't really listening. My mind was turning over all the things that might have happened to Ned. Being a historian wasn't all trawling through libraries and saving priceless non-significant artefacts. One of the first things you were taught was that you had to be prepared to walk into danger.

This was especially true given Lady Schrapnell's latest project, which had been adopted rather too enthusiastically by Mr Dunworthy and Oxford University

"What time did Ned go through?" I asked. "In 1940, I mean."

"I sent him through at two pm on the twentieth of September," reported Badri, peering at his screen, "and there were a couple of minutes of slippage."

"And what time am I going through?"

"We'll put you through at six, when Ned was due back," said Mr Dunworthy. "And Verity, remember, if anything goes wrong, get straight back to the drop. We don't want both of you going missing."

I came through in the shadow of the theatre and stepped out of the alley, wondering where to start. The obvious place would be backstage, since that was where Ned should have been, but to get there I had to negotiate the main street, which was deserted except for a man in uniform who was walking towards me. I tensed. I had never yet been attacked while on a drop - unless you counted Princess Arjumand, who had had a wicked way of kneading her claws through however many layers of petticoats you were wearing - but that wasn't to say that it would never happen.

I marched towards the stranger, trying to look lost in thought. This wasn't difficult - I was extremely worried about Ned, but also conscious that I mustn't let my guard drop. As we drew level, the man nodded and raised a hand to his beret, not quite tipping it in my direction. I nodded back.

"Excuse me, miss."

Damn. I turned; the man had halted a few metres behind me. His face was in shadow, but he didn't look like a potential mugger or kidnapper.

"I hope I'm not interfering, but I do advise that you see yourself home or find some shelter soon. These streets are not an ideal place for a lady." The voice was clipped and cultured; it sounded oddly familiar and this, combined with the uniform, which I hazily thought was an RAF one, gave a reassuring impression.

"Oh?" I said, stalling for time. Perhaps he had seen Ned! "Er, why, please?"

His laugh conjured up an image of a croquet lawn on an idyllic summer's day. "Goodness! Well, I suspect it's because everyone is indoors, waiting for the bombs to fall." He looked up at the sky with a faint sigh.

"I'm supposed to be meeting somebody," I improvised. "A Mr Ned Henry. You haven't seen him, have you? He's about your height, with light brown hair, and he was wearing -" what _had_ Ned been wearing? "I'm not sure," I finished lamely.

He looked up and down the street. "I haven't seen him, I'm afraid." I caught the familiar note in his voice again, and for a second I forgot to wonder how he could be so sure that he hadn't seen someone whom I'd described so vaguely. I stepped forward, striving not to stare at him. It couldn't be - coincidences like this simply didn't happen. I stuck out my hand.

"I'm Verity."

He reached out and shook the hand warmly. "Flight Lieutenant John St Trewes of His Majesty's Royal Air Force at your service," he said. "At least, provided that your service doesn't require too long to fulfil, since I'm on my way to meet my fiancée. But I'd be happy to help you in any way I can in the meantime."

"I am pleased to meet you." I realised that I sounded slightly overenthusiastic, and blushed. "I mean - you sounded as if you knew Ned - Mr Henry."

Close up, he had Terence's open, pleasant face, but his eyes must be Maud's or his parents'. It was really a very odd feeling. I'd encountered coincidences before in my work, but nothing like this.

Somewhere about sixty years ago, Ned and I were talking to Terence and Tossie, or conducting agonised clandestine discussions on the subject of incongruities. Somewhere about sixty years ago, I was falling in love with Ned while he strode about looking unfairly dashing in his Victorian river costume and boater. Somewhere, we were boating on the Thames just like Harriet and Peter. And somewhere, here in 1940, I was chatting to Terence's grandson, while Ned was - where?

"Nowhere," suggested my thoughts. I squashed them firmly and concentrated on the present. Every second wasted might mean life or death to Ned.

"Do I understand - have you met Ned before?" I asked, remembering the certainty in Ter - John's voice.

"Yes. Met him yesterday, as a matter of fact," he said cheerily. "Right here. He told me he was meeting someone. I say, could one of you possibly have got the day wrong?"

"What - this is going to sound awfully silly of me - what date is it?" I asked, a terrible suspicion dawning.

"It's the twenty-first of September," said John, whose manners were apparently unshakeable.

I looked around, attempting to control my emotions without kicking the nearest wall. Judging by the waning light, I'd come through at about the right time - a day late. Twenty-four hours in which Ned might have been tortured or died from wounds or lain trapped in a burning building. I glanced behind me. At least the theatre was still intact. He hadn't been bombed with it - yet. "Did Ned say who he was meeting?" I asked, aware that I probably sounded like a jealous girlfriend.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." He frowned. "Now where was it he said he was going? He was looking for something - an antiquarian bookshop off Charing Cross road. Ah! The name was 'Noble'. He mentioned a - a papyrus?" He pronounced it the French way.

I breathed relief deeply. "Thank you so much, Mr St Trewes. It's very kind of you. I believe I know what he's gone for." In fact, I had no specific idea, but if Ned had mentioned an ancient Egyptian scroll, there was little doubt that he'd gone off to rescue it.

"May I escort you there now?" John crooked his arm into a perfect V.

"Oh," I said guiltily, "I don't want to keep you from your fiancée."

"You won't be. She's driving an ambulance over that way; that's where I was going to meet her anyway. No rest for the wicked during the war!" He sighed theatrically, but I thought I detected genuine distress in his tone.

"How long are you on leave for?"

"Three more days. I report back on Monday." Suddenly he looked older and sterner. I wished I had checked whether he'd survived the war or not, but it had never occurred to me. I hoped that he did. He had obviously survived the bombing raids on Berlin, which had been earlier that month. I hoped that he'd been discharged and had married his sweetheart, and that she was every bit as clever and sensible as Maud.

Before I had time to consider the fact that I was abandoning my location and disobeying Mr Dunworthy's orders, we were walking up Bow Street and down Long Acre. We passed a few people, but they all hurried by, obviously intent on getting home before the Germans arrived. John was quite right: nobody wanted to be out in the dark, which was rapidly approaching.

I didn't ask about Terence and Maud. One of the things that history taught you, in a way that life never could, was that everyone dies eventually. Sometimes fate is cruel, sometimes kind; often it's better not to know. So I asked about John's fiancée, and he was happy to talk about her. She was called Vivien; she was young and pretty with shoulder-length blond hair, and he worried about her driving the ambulance through the raids and the firestorms, but he was proud of her, too. His step lightened when he spoke of her, so that I had to speed up to match his stride.

"Forgive the intrusion," John said as we turned off Tottenham Court Road, "but if your friend was going to this place yesterday, why do you think he might still be there? My mother loves bookshops, and has been known to spend hours at a time in them when she comes up to London - but even she has never stayed overnight."

I decided that some half-truths were in order. "He had a meeting here, you see. He was researching rare books - whether they could be removed for safekeeping until the bombs stop. But - he didn't return to his lodgings last night, and when I couldn't find him today I was worried." There was no need to fake the catch in my voice.

He patted my hand. "I'm sure you'll find him. All sorts of odd things happen to people these days. Might've caught a blow to the head, or perhaps he was roped into looking after someone else."

"Yes," I said, "but Ned's always so sensible, and he knows people will worry."

The pat became a gentle squeeze. "I'm sure you'll find him. I say, though! If you don't, you must get to a shelter soon. It looks like a perfect night for Jerry. You will, won't you?" He looked stern, and I noticed lines around his mouth and eyes.

"I will," I said.

Foyles loomed ahead and to the right of us; we turned left, and soon arrived at the corner of Charing Cross Road and a little street full of nooks and dark holes which lowered in the waning evening sunlight. I hoped John had got the shop name right; I didn't relish wandering around by myself for too long. "I know where I'm going now, thank you," I told him. "You get along to Vivien."

He grinned, looking very like Terence again. "You find that sweetheart of yours. But," he glanced upwards, "don't be too long about it. If you need to find a shelter, head for Leicester Square. And Vivien's ambulance depot's just up there." He pointed back up Charing Cross Road.

"Thanks again," I said. "It really was very nice - and providential - to meet you."

His nod was almost a bow. "At your service. Remember - the shelter or the ambulance depot." He turned and strode off down the street.

I walked cautiously into the lane. The shop signs were dim in the encroaching dark, and I had to strain to read them. 'Stillworth Ironmongery', said one. Another sign proclaimed, 'Purveyors of Fine...' No. My heart leapt at the word 'antiquarian', but no, that one was called Cecil. I walked on; the darkness deepened as I moved away from the main street, and I wished I had brought a torch.

There it was: ivory lettering just visible in the gloom. Noble Books, Antiquarian booksellers. Gold lettering underneath added: "Specialists in works of the ancient world".

This was the place all right, the one Ned had mentioned to John. I could see what had happened now. The shop must have been bombed in the war, and Ned must have discovered that some sort of ancient scroll had been destroyed. He must have gone over there, either to negotiate its removal or, in a Schrapnellian gasp of heroism, to remove it just before - or during - the raid. And something had gone wrong.

The shop was still here, dirty but intact, so it obviously hadn't been bombed yet. Which meant that Ned hadn't been bombed with it. On the other hand, he clearly didn't have whatever he'd been looking for, either, otherwise he'd have been back in 2058 with me, being patted on the back by Lady Schrapnell and then sent off on the next impossible mission.

So. The first thing to do was ascertain whether he was in the building. I moved into the hollow of the doorway and called his name softly.

Muffled thuds came from somewhere inside and I jumped.

"Ned?" I called again, louder this time.

The thudding continued; there was no way of knowing whether he'd heard me or not - or even if it was him making the noise.

Was there a back way in? I sprinted up and down the street, testing every crevice and doorway. Nothing. I was about to run back to Charing Cross Road and search for a back lane when a familiar, mournful wail filled the chilly air. A bombing raid.

I hesitated for all of five seconds. If Ned was trying to rescue something from this shop, that must mean that it had been bombed, and soon. Which meant that a) Ned was in danger and b) if the shop was going to be torched in the near future, a broken window wouldn't make much difference.

London streets in late 1940 were full of debris from previous air raids. I hurried along, eyes alert to anything that might help me, and tripped over what I needed. I went down with a gasp of pain, stubbing my left big toe, cutting my knee open through my dress and grazing both hands badly. Twisting on the ground, I grabbed the obstacle that had tripped me, ignoring the pain in my hands, and wrenched myself upright again. When I reached the shop, I launched the brick as hard as I could into the side window, the one nearest the entrance. It cracked open with a series of ear-splitting splinters.

Clearing away several shards that protruded dangerously from the frame, I stepped through gingerly. It was even darker here than outside, and I wished again that I'd brought a torch.

"Ned!" I yelled. "Are you here?"

His voice called from quite nearby, and my legs softened with relief.

"I'm coming," I yelled. "Just keep shouting, alright?"

I felt my way across the door and immediately encountered bookshelves. It was an easy matter to follow them cautiously, kicking my feet in front to check for obstacles. I could feel blood congealing on my knee, sticking my stocking to the wound. That was going to hurt later. But Ned's voice kept me moving. When I reached the end of the first set of shelves, I had to work my way around a large desk, which was frustrating because I had to go in the wrong direction, away from his yells.

"Keep shouting," I called. "I'm coming, darling."

Finally I made it around the desk and almost fell through the dark opening behind it into a tiny corridor with three doors leading off it. I launched myself at the one behind which Ned's voice was calling, the pitch rather higher than usual. How long had he been shut in there?

The door was locked, but the key was right there in the padlock. Obviously whoever had shut him in hadn't anticipated intruders. I turned the key, flung the door open and bounced inside and into Ned's arms.

There was a small amount of frantic kissing which I'll omit, and then I said, "Come on, we've got to get out. The air raid's about to start!"

"I have heard," he said dryly as he followed me back through into the shop, switching on his torch.

"Bless you," I said. "I've been wishing for one of those."

"Wait just a moment." His voice was hoarse from all the shouting. "I need to get what I came for."

I knew better than to waste time arguing. He headed straight for a glass case behind the desk, then swore and fumbled in the drawer by his hip.

"Ned," I said, "there's an air raid about to start. I don't think you need to worry about smashing a bit of glass."

"We don't know exactly when this place was bombed," he said, pulling out a set of keys. "The records don't show that level of detail."

"I assume it was the owner who shut you in there?" I asked, mainly to distract myself from the awful noise of the siren.

"Yes. He thought I'd come to steal the papyrus - which I suppose I had, really. He didn't understand, of course." Ned was frantically trying one key after another; suddenly one clicked into place and he sighed. "Aha!"

He reached into the cabinet and gently pulled out a smaller case. "Thank goodness it's well-protected; otherwise we'd have no chance of getting it back. It would just crumble before our eyes." Turning, he gave me a quick kiss over the top of his prize. "Thank you for rescuing me. I knew you'd come."

In the end, we headed for the nearest air raid shelter. We could hear the planes overhead, and it seemed sensible not to tempt fate any more than was necessary. As we huddled in a corner of the Tube station, wrapping Ned's coat around both us and the papyrus, I had the opportunity to ask several questions that had been bothering me. Such as:

Why had Ned left the theatre without telling anyone?

"That was stupid of me," he admitted. "But I was hanging around in the foyer after the matinée audience had come out when I heard Mr Noble - that was the bookseller - discussing the papyrus, and how he should probably move it somewhere safe. At least, his friend suggested he move it; he said it was as safe in the shop as anywhere, since you couldn't predict where the Germans were going to bomb next. But then he mentioned the street, and I knew it had been bombed, because Mr Dunworthy made me memorise all the bomb sites before he put me back on air raid duty. You remember?"

I did. I'd spent several evenings testing him; it had been like being an undergraduate again.

"How long were you shut in that room? Since yesterday?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't know when the air raid was coming?"

He shook his head, his face suddenly stiff. I pressed my cheek to his and squeezed as close to him as I could manage, hoping that my tears wouldn't be visible in the torchlight. We were silent for a moment, and when he pulled back, he kept a tight hold on my hand.

I sniffed and forced lightness into my voice. "I gather you met John St Trewes?"

He smiled suddenly. "I gather you did, too. What a wonderful coincidence, wasn't it? Good old Terence; I did like him."

"Was it really a coincidence?" I asked thoughtfully.

Ned shrugged. "I don't see what else you could call it. That sort of thing just _never_ happens ... except that it seems to happen to us quite a lot."

"Yes." I nudged him; it was so lovely to feel his warmth against me, after I'd been so terrified on his behalf. "All those simulations of TJ's, remember? The continuum messing us around for its own purposes? You don't suppose it was up to its tricks again?"

"I hope not," Ned said decisively. "I've had enough of being the pawn of time."

We headed back up to the surface as soon as the all-clear sounded, despite the warnings of the ARP man on duty. I wanted nothing more than to get Ned home and into a hot bath. A nice quiet evening on our sofa beckoned, I felt, perhaps featuring pizza and Penwiper, our cat. On our route, however, was the little lane on which the bookshop was situated. It was cordoned off, and flames sputtered in the darkness a little way down it.

I held tightly to Ned's hand and led him home.

 


End file.
